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If John was honest with himself, the whole disaster was probably for the best. Sure, he wished things went down differently—he preferred not to be herded out of the house by the barrel of Bobby’s shotgun—but now that they were safely on the highway out of Sioux Falls, John was happy to never return. He should have jettisoned Bobby a long time ago.
Bobby was a late addition to John’s address book. The first hunters he ran into dealt with run-of-the-mill cases, and they trained him well. It was years before John ran into his first demon. When he did? Everyone suggested he go to Sioux Falls for advice.
Bobby knew what he was doing. That was the problem. Even when John was green, most guys at least humored his suggestions, but Bobby left no room for disagreement. As soon as John knocked on his door, Bobby was clear: “I’ve dealt with a lot of hunters, so let’s make one thing known: you can either do things my way or walk right back out that door.” John deserved some credit, because even with five years of hunting under his belt, he did exactly that.
Things worked out alright in the moment. John left that house with more information on demons than he ever could have hoped for. Bobby went back to Ogden with him, and they cleaned up the case within a day.
Hell, after that, John thought so highly of Bobby that the next time he needed help, he brought his boys along. That was his first mistake. The bastard had a soft spot for kids. Sam and Dean always left the salvage yard with their pockets full of plastic crap and their teeth full of cavities. Both they and Bobby made sure John could never go to South Dakota alone ever again.
John still went back, though, over and over and over again. It was a better place to leave his kids than most—Bobby’s doorframes were reinforced with iron, and his windows lined with salt. Bobby was a capable hunting partner, too. He might complain about getting dragged out of his cushy living room, but he wrapped up jobs together faster than Caleb or Jim ever did. Within a few years, every time John caught wind of something in the upper midwest, he called Bobby to ask if he wanted to tag along.
That was John’s real downfall. He never ran a two-man operation. He knew better. When lives were on the line, there was no time to fight over who had the better ideas. He had mentors, sure—he couldn’t exactly learn hunting from a book—and people he could call for the jobs he couldn’t handle by himself, but he never had a partner. He didn’t want to get used to relying on anyone else.
John always asked Bobby to play backup. He worded it that way for a reason. Bobby might be the big guy when it came to demons, but John tackled more small game in a month than Bobby did in a year. He wasn’t taking orders from a guy who hadn't killed a werewolf or a rougarou since before John’s sons were born.
For the most part, Bobby listened. He would curse and bitch until John regretted inviting him in the first place, but when they were on the job, he fell in line.
At least. For the most part. John was pretty used to hearing things like, “Shoot, you idiot” or “Get out the goddamned salt, already,” but he did his best to ignore it. Sure, Travis didn’t give him half as much lip, but Travis also botched half of their hunts, then followed John to the bar. Bobby got things done right and stayed out of John’s way. For a while, that was worth the defiance.
Then Bobby got comfortable. More and more, there was backtalk—Bobby didn’t like John’s research, he didn’t like the way John talked to witnesses, he didn’t even like how John loaded his salt rounds or parked his car. He’d let it go after John told him to shut his mouth, but it never stopped him from doing it again. Bobby still listened to John, but only after he made his opinion known. John never took Bobby out of his address book completely, but he called a hell of a lot less often.
John should have quit while he was ahead.
These days, John was almost free. He hadn’t called on any of his contacts in a good six months. Gone were the days of making small talk and paying for someone’s beer just to get backup—anything John could handle by himself, he did, and for everything else, there was Dean. The kid was a skilled marksman from the age of ten; at fifteen, he finally had enough brains to make a decent partner. John didn’t enjoy pulling Dean out of class to work, but some things were more important. School wasn't going anywhere.
With John calling the shots, Dean made quick work of ghosts, shifters, and witches. He could handle small-time jobs just as well as any adult. There were only a few things John didn’t trust Dean against, and slowly but surely, they were filling in the gaps.
That was how John ended up back in South Dakota. There was no way in hell he'd go up against a demon with only Dean by his side. Weak, unprepared kids were what they thrived on. The thing would ride Dean in an instant, and then John would be on his own. Dean had to learn eventually, but he needed a competent teacher. John hated to admit it, but he needed Bobby.
Bobby might be grouchy, whiny, and altogether a bitch, but only when he wanted to be. When he was in a good mood (and that was a rare sight), he was the most capable hunter since Daniel Elkins. Demons put Bobby in a good mood. If a demon was around, Bobby was undeniably the expert. He took the reins, and everyone else, John included, fell in line. John didn't enjoy that system, but it was exactly what Dean needed.
John figured he’d get a positive response. He was bringing Bobby a new peon; that was practically a Christmas present.
Instead, Bobby’s answer was one word: “No.”
It took a minute for it to sink in. “Excuse me?” John asked.
Bobby stared him down. “No. I am not taking a fifteen-year-old out to hunt demons, and frankly, I'm pissed that you think I would.”
John wouldn't stand for that. He could understand if Bobby had a problem working with a normal teenager—anyone with half a brain would—but this was Dean. Dean could shoot better than he could read. Hunting was in his blood. He ate, shat, and breathed it.
“He's one hell of a hunter,” John said. “On a good day, he's better than you.”
Bobby snapped. “I don't give a rat's ass how good he is! There's some shit you don't drag kids into. I'm not taking one right into a demon’s nest!”
Then, Bobby slowed his words and looked John right in the eyes. “I would think that, as a father, you of all people would understand that.”
John knew insubordination when he saw it. He wasn't about to roll over and let Bobby take control. “Are you telling me how to raise my children?”
“If it involves taking them on my hunt? Absolutely I am.”
Bobby was a stubborn son of a bitch, but he had one hell of a soft spot. If John let Dean plead his own case, Bobby might just be swayed.
“Dean! Come here!” John shouted.
“Yes, sir,” Dean answered. John watched him march all the way up to the door.
When John turned around, he was face to face with Bobby’s Remington.
“Listen, John, and listen good,” Bobby said. “I’ve put up with you for quite a few years now, but if you say one more word about taking your child hunting, so help me, I will fill you with buckshot. Turn around and get right back in that precious car of yours. If I’m lucky, I’ll never see you here ever again.”
John wasn’t one to give up easily, but he also wasn’t an idiot. He knew better than to argue when a gun was in his face. “Suit yourself, Bobby. I’ll take care of this one on my own.” He turned to Dean and nodded. “Let’s go.”
Dean looked more than a little shaken, but all he said was, “Yes, sir.”
John couldn’t say he knew much about friends, but he knew that sure as hell wasn’t how they behaved. He needed a hunting partner he could trust, not one who would point a loaded shotgun at him. John was a fool to keep Bobby around as long as he did.
John started off hunting solo. It seemed he’d end that way, too. Caleb, Travis, and Jim were alright, but more often than not, John did better work on his own, and eventually, Dean would leave the nest. Bobby made a better partner than any of them for a while, but John wouldn’t exactly mourn his loss. If John was honest with himself, this sort of clean break was for the best.